


To Tell the Truth

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Fix-It, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-15
Updated: 2005-09-15
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Companion story to "To Tell a Lie" from Fraser's POV.





	To Tell the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

To Tell the Truth

## To Tell the Truth

  
by limlaith  


Disclaimer: No profit or reimbursement is being made or sought from this story. Ray and Ben belong to people who have far less fun with them.

Author's Notes: This story does stand on its own but is more enjoyable if you read "To Tell a Lie." That one came first, and the Ben demanded he be allowed to speak.

Story Notes: No warnings whatsoever.

* * *

It has been pointed out on more than one occasion, usually with great disdain and in a vernacular that I shouldn't repeat, that I am entirely too honest. This confuses me. How can one be _too_ honest? One is either honest or one is not.  
  
I was reared to be honest in all things, a merit that I take for granted in others, and for which I have paid dearly more than once in my life. It became a familiar adage in Chicago, among the members of the 27th Precinct, that Mounties never lie. We cannot lie, as though a peculiar circumstance of our very essence, our very nature, precludes us from ever uttering something that is less than wholly true.  
  
Allow me to preface what I am about to say by affirming that I never _tell_ lies. Ray once introduced me as George Washington, a reference he then had to explain, and the historical accuracy of which I had to correct, but that is neither here nor there. I never tell an outright lie when posed a direct question. It is therefore incumbent upon the person asking the question to do so in a manner which best secures the answer he is seeking. Often I have discovered, when dealing with Americans for example, that one can get by with never directly answering a question at all. Much can be implied by and thus inferred from a circuitous response to a query that is poorly phrased or ill-thought out.   
  
I believe, and here Ray would have to correct me as to proper usage of the word, that what I do is known as hedging. He has called it by less polite, if not more fitting, terms.  
  
"Bullshit, Frase," he has said to me more times than I can count.  
  
From the very beginning, Ray Kowalski made me speak clearly. Rude, yes, he is rude. He interrupts me, and everyone else, so often it is shameful. It took me a long time to realize why.   
  
My mind is methodical, progressing from point A to B to C in a logical order. I do not arrive at point B before A has been thoroughly examined. Ray's mind is like a feather carried on a current of air; unseen updrafts fling him from point A to G to P and finally to whatever destination these impulses see fit to convey him. By some strange mystery, we almost always arrive at point C together. Nonetheless, he is very impatient with the pedantic, methodical approach favored by most people and must speak his thoughts as they arrive, in turn, regardless of whomever else holds the floor at that particular moment.  
  
If he does not speak what is on his mind at the moment these inspirations arrive, I believe they would take flight and he would not be able to capture them again. For his thoughts are inspirations, born of instinct. He beguiles me.  
  
He is churlish, volatile, impulsive, and one of the most intelligent men I've ever known. He does not believe me when I say this. I ask him if he thinks I would lie to him, and he says, no, he thinks that I am merely unhinged. Ah.   
  
He believes he is unintelligent due primarily to his lack of grace with language. That a man in whom grace lives as a breathing, throbbing entity - a man for whom grace defines every corporal movement - should have difficulty expressing his thoughts and desires with ease is perversely comforting. This is disgustingly selfish on my part, but if he could speak as well as he does everything else in his life, then I am afraid I would despair of ever living up to him. I do try to live up to him, and were I to ever admit such a thing, he would no doubt "pop me one."   
  
As it is, he has no problems whatsoever expressing himself despite his lack of linguistic skills. He possesses an entire lexicon of colorful expressions that, although not particularly courteous, are undeniably apropos. He speaks from his heart, often speaking before he has had time to organize his thoughts or properly censor them.  
  
I know it annoys him when I correct him, but I can't seem to help it. I have spoken at length to Diefenbaker about this, and we believe Ray suffers from a mild form of aphasia, complicated by an obvious hyperactive disorder, the latter leaving him unable to sit still for more than five minutes.   
  
I admit that to this day I am still overwhelmed by the sheer force of him, the vitality, the energy, the life.  
  
How often I mention Ray. My Ray. My sweet, sweet, dear Ray. How I adore this man.   
  
He is one of the bravest, strongest, most indomitable men I have ever known. I love him beyond my ability to verbally express it. And that is saying something.  
  
At the Depot, as part of our training, all recruits were educated in linguistics and languages. The systematic nature of language appeals to me, as does the specificity of it. Having a large vocabulary greatly increases my chances of being understood, should I wish to be understood. Herein exists the fine and often blurred demarcation between the truth and the _whole_ truth. Quite rightly are witnesses sworn to tell both things upon taking the stand in court.  
  
Ray has informed me blithely that I am a "DA's wet dream." Whereas I prefer not to meditate on that disturbing mental image, I take the statement in the spirit in which it is offered.  
  
Where was I? Ah, yes. Telling the truth.   
  
The whole truth.  
  
It is exceedingly difficult for me to tell the whole truth. As I said, I was reared to be honest in all things - _except_ when it came to my own wants or needs, or my own discomfort. I could tell the truth as long as what I said sounded positive, dedicated, optimistic, and selfless. If asked what I wanted, I quickly learned to respond, "I have everything I need."   
  
On the face of it, this is true; on the face of it, it is a sincere response to the question. After all, man only _needs_ air, water, food, and shelter. I was never once without those things.   
  
What I _was_ without was so enormous that I never noticed it, for it was all around me.  
  
Not once did I imagine that a man could _need_ comfort, reassurance, understanding, or love. These words were not in my dictionary; they were not concepts in my life experience. I was taught not to need, not to want, not to even name the things I was without - until I no longer noticed I was without them. Touch. Tenderness. Acceptance. Humor. Love. Most of all love.  
  
This is not to say that my grandparents did not love me. I know they did, or rather, I know it now. My father, well, it suffices to say that I got to know him much better after he was dead, and that is a whole other ball of wax. I am yet uncertain that he ever _loved_ me, but he was a product of his upbringing, and in turn, so was I, seeing as I was reared by his parents.  
  
I had few friends, few people with whom I could speak about things that seemed relevant to me in my youth, and therefore abandoned all that I thought I felt in pursuit of what I should be feeling - the uncompromising yet acquiescent feelings of my grandparents, the lack of feelings from my father.   
  
Don't make a mountain out of a mole hill, take each day as it comes, be thankful for what you have, chin up, stiff upper lip, beggars can't be choosers, waste not want not - how many times I heard these things. They became a constant, running inner monologue. As Ray would put it, the soundtrack of my life.  
  
One by one they all died. I barely remember my mother.  
  
It is a marvel I didn't grow up to become a deranged psychopath.  
  
In short, it became a pattern, a habit, to use my exhaustive vocabulary as a way of expressing thoughts, but never feelings. Feelings became as foreign as the jungles of the Amazon.   
  
"Hello, Fraser, how are you?" "I am well, thank you."  
  
The question asked refers to my emotional state; the response, to my physical condition. I did not consciously understand the difference until I met Ray.  
  
Insofar as I can express myself better than most, I often use anecdote as a way of explaining something for which I have no personal frame of reference. I had learned to use words to distance myself from everything and everyone I could not have and did not know I needed. Want never entered into it. I was not aware of this habit for a long time, not until Ray pointed it out.  
  
He was the first person in my life to recognize when I was speaking just to speak, and when I actually had something to say. He was the first person who could make me "skip on down" and "get to the point." It was disconcerting at first, unsettling at best, and I frequently found myself struggling to accommodate him. I _was_ getting to the point, if he would simply be patient.  
  
Patience is not one of his strong suits, to put it mildly.  
  
For a time, we found ourselves at odds, odds that led to the most painful altercation of my life and left me with a sore jaw and hand. I have never hated myself more, striking him as I did, even though he wanted me to. I gained no satisfaction from the act, and I am not entirely sure to this day that I have forgiven myself.  
  
We were a duet, he informed me, a one-two punch. Granted, we worked well together. He came to anticipate my moves, and I, his. We grew close despite our odds, despite his favorite epithet for me - freak. I learned, rather tardily, that this was a term of endearment, and none the less accurate.  
  
It was not until the return of the real Ray Vecchio that we became lovers. We brought to justice the man responsible for murdering both my mother and father, one of the most famous and farcical moments in the history of Canadian law enforcement, and then he and I had an Adventure.   
  
Saying it like that makes me laugh.   
  
There we were, facing certain death, trapped in an ice crevasse, and Ray wanted an adventure. I knew then that I loved him more than life, and yet I was willing to risk both our lives in pursuit of justice. Perhaps Ray is correct that I am unhinged.   
  
In summation, borrowing one of Ray's turns of phrase, I got my man, and then I got my _man_.   
  
With Holloway Muldoon in custody and having given our depositions, we set off for the Hand of Franklin. I had little hope we would ever find any evidence of the expedition, much less a frozen appendage reaching up from out of the ice, but this is of little consequence. What I did find was love. We found love. Really, we are a sorry pair of detectives given that it was right in front of us the whole time.   
  
How we both laughed at the discovery of how long we had both entertained these profound, unspoken longings and desires. We did much more than laugh.   
  
His hands branded my skin, his mouth gave me life. His touch, his surrender, his love so deep and wild was nothing I had ever known. He taught me to crave him, to _need_ him - to want him as much as I need him. Frightening, terrifying emotions assailing me all at once. Needing and wanting things I had spent an entire lifetime not needing or wanting, although -   
  
That is the greatest lie of all.  
  
I found myself not only recognizing but giving into the most astonishing of carnal urges, the most wonderful, the most glorious. Things I dared not speak. Things I dared not _want_. Beyond that, I found myself craving double cheeseburgers and pizza with pineapple, and _beer_!, and wanting to sleep past dawn. Shameful. Shameless.  
  
I couldn't, and at times still can't, give name to all the cravings he awoke in me. For the first time in my life, I was living. Not merely surviving.  
  
It was a cataclysmic revelation, and I was miserably ashamed of myself.  
  
In his arms I was stripped bare, wholly naked, my soul exposed. I am a liar.  
  
He revealed to me how deep my lies ran, how often I told them to myself, how hard I had worked to believe them - and he didn't have to speak word. He showed me what I had been craving all of my life and had never been courageous enough to admit. I am a coward.  
  
Between the half-truths and obfuscations I speak aloud and the traitorous mendacity of my inner thoughts, he slowly exposed me to be a most audacious liar, and it shook me to the bone.   
  
I do not deserve him. I will work ceaselessly to the end of my days, slaving feverishly to earn his love - even though he assures me that I have it.  
  
Impossible.  
  
If he only knew. Victoria. I speak her name as a baleful curse.   
  
She, too, exposed me. I loved her once, though I am ashamed to say the word. What I felt for her is not a single flake of snow in the vast artic expanse of my love for Ray. Nonetheless, I would have betrayed everything I believed, everything I knew, everyone I knew, all for her. My entire life would have been a lie, then. Fitting, I suppose, given how much of my life was based on lies I told myself.  
  
I craved her like a drug. I was an addict. I was lost in her blackness and didn't care that I could no longer see. Suffocating.  
  
The shame of her, the stain she left upon my soul, will never be washed away.   
  
I do not deserve Ray. He is everything good and pure and precious in my life. He is the sun that rises over the glaciers and nearly blinds me with its brilliance.   
  
I knew that in the end he will leave me, because he cannot possibly love me as I love him.  
  
At this point, it should be duly noted that this is the second greatest lie.  
  
When he decided that he would not be returning to live in Chicago but would prefer to live with me, I was shocked. I could not believe that he would ever be happy living here. He has referred to the place we live as "the ass end of nowhere," "the last outpost of the frozen north," "the capital of freezerland," and other similar quaint appellations.   
  
These are not complimentary ways to refer to one's home. Or, rather, my home.  
  
Chicago is his home. It stands to reason that a man misses his home, yearns for his home. I could not believe, still have trouble believing, that he could be happy here. He is such a physical creature, loves his physical comforts, things that, to me, are extravagant. I consider hot showers a luxury; he considers them a bare necessity. Central air and heat, take out food, microwaves, instant coffee, movies and cellular phones - all these things were very integral parts of his life. I could not in good conscience ask him to give them up.  
  
In response to this, he would call me a freak and ask me to look at it from his point of view. Would he rather be at his apartment on his sofa, alone, drinking a beer, watching TV and eating a pineapple pizza, or be here with me? Asked like that, my response could only be to choose the former.   
  
Obviously he will miss those things.   
  
Life is difficult here. Life is _survival_ here. I cannot expect him to choose me over all the things that have made up his life as he has always known it: friends, work, pastimes, familiarity, warmth more than three months out of the year. He says I don't get it. I think I get it quite clearly, thank you kindly, Ray.  
  
We end up fighting.   
  
We have always fought, argued, bantered. He yells, and I become quiet. Pissy, he calls it. In the end, we both apologize profusely, but I know that the brunt of the culpability rests squarely with me. I must endeavor to be more understanding, to read him better - to better my painfully incompetent conversational skills. I excel at giving speeches. I falter when it comes to having normal conversations.  
  
He gets angry very quickly, and then more angry at my lack of appropriate verbal or obvious physical responses. At times I think he expects me to hit him, wants me to hit him. No doubt it would be over as quickly as it was the first time, and we would feel no better. The guilt would compound itself. Nonetheless, his emotions express themselves as physically as mine do not.   
  
There is an upside to this, I admit with some embarrassment. I have discovered that with all emotions - joy, anger, guilt, sorrow, contentment - Ray most clearly and eloquently expresses them in the form of sexual intimacy. The intimacy we share after arguing is, well, startling. Exhausting, all-consuming. It is a seismic event.   
  
We made love more often in the first two weeks of our relationship than I had in all the years of my life.  
  
I told him this, and in his own indelicate way, he said that he couldn't tell it from the way I "sucked him off," so what was I worried about? I was not worried, per se, merely trying to express an emotion for which I lacked words. For which I lacked relevant experience.  
  
Since that time, we have made love every single day, sometimes twice. On the weekends it has occurred to him, more than once, that we should stage our own miniature sexual Olympics. I cannot say this bothers me.  
  
I am enamored of his taste, his smell, the wanton sounds he makes in the throes of passion, the way his body blushes and rises to my mouth, my hands, my self. I am drunk with him. Besotted.  
  
He is eager to give and receive pleasure in such a way - well, I find myself unable to put it into words. I am at a loss. If I could earn a living making love to him then I would be an infinitely wealthy man.   
  
I prefer the slow and methodic exploration of his body so that he knows he is mine and I am his. I can lay claim to him, much as it shames me to say it, and I am more than happy to let him lay claim to me. At times, though, he distinctly prefers something shattering and rigorous. Spontaneous. Untamed.   
  
I dare say that I blush uncontrollably any occasion Maggie comes to visit and takes tea with me at the table. I think I have lost count of the number of times Ray and I have made love, standing, bent over and gripping this very table, making apology to one another with our bodies. How could I possibly count when he is doing, Lord, what he does to me?  
  
Dear God, how I love this man. I would do anything to make him happy.  
  
Yet I have always felt it beyond my power to do so.  
  
I feared that all the things that he loves, all the things that make him who he is, would wither and die here in this frozen wilderness. He would try to be happy, for my sake if nothing else, and in the end, he would resent me for his failure and despise what he had allowed himself to become. I could never permit this.   
  
The loss of who he is as a person would be far worse than the loss of him here, his presence, his luminous warmth in my frigid darkness.   
  
I set this truth as the cornerstone for our life together here, in my cabin.  
  
I mention the loss of him, here, as if it were something insignificant. Not even I am deluded enough to believe this. I know I would be the one to wither and die were he to leave. My life, my heart, who I am, and who I am to become are so inextricably linked to this man that I know I would never recover the loss.   
  
I say this with no melodrama, no gratuitous histrionics. I am simply aware that I would rather suffer my own inevitable decline than to witness him suffer at all.  
  
I would rather see him swim to the surface and leave me to die alone in the icy dark than to see him offer me a breath he cannot spare.  
  
That I cannot tell him these things in so many words is yet another example of my supreme cowardice.  
  
I tried to show him, from the start. I tried to take care of him, teach him, show him all the things I had learned from living here, but somehow it was all, too often, too much. He accused me of crowding him, not trusting him, not having faith in him. If he only knew.  
  
I tried to explain how happy I was in Chicago and that I would gladly return there with him, and even though I exaggerated my past happiness there, I know I would be happy with _him_ , and I hoped he would hear me out. He refused to listen.   
  
He informed me that I had to be in Canada, and therefore, he had to be in Canada.  
  
He began a sort of home improvement crusade, trying to change our home into something that more closely resembled his home in Chicago. I tried to hold my tongue, difficult as that is for me to do. He wanted to completely renovate the bathroom, buy new furniture, a bigger bed, generate solar power for better electricity, buy a microwave - many things.   
  
There was one memorable evening when I came home to find a large snowman, a large, anatomically-correct snowman, wearing my spare Stetson. Really, Ray! A snowman with a penis is one thing, but do not disrespect the Uniform!  
  
He started with small projects, indoors and outdoors, trying to make a go of it, trying to prove that he was happy. I wanted to help him, to make him feel I trusted him, but all along I could see that he was unhappy and trying to compensate for this by staying busy. He was missing his home and couldn't bring himself to tell me.  
  
How this hurt. I knew to expect it, knew it was coming, but the pain of it slowly tore me apart.  
  
I started initiating more love-making, more often, loving him with everything, with all I am and have, holding onto him as though it might be our last moment together. I needed to imprint him on my very bones, to be able to hold his ghost once he had departed, something to clutch to my breast as a talisman against all the lonely nights I would have to endure for the rest of my life.  
  
I thought I was going mad. He became more nervous and unreasonable. Paranoid. I became silent and resigned.   
  
When I was not silent, we fought over nothing, over everything. It became absurd. Apologies were no longer sufficient. All that was left between us were pounding, sweaty interludes on nearly every piece of furniture in our home.   
  
Everything fell apart on a Tuesday.  
  
We were fighting about his seeking employment, and to this day, I am not sure why we were fighting.  
  
"Ray," I began, "I'm certain that you will excel at whatever you should choose to attempt, but I'm afraid you won't find much to keep you occupied. Moreover, you're too old to become a Mountie."   
  
I hoped that didn't sound insulting. Far from it. It was a natural assumption that he should seek employ in something familiar, something he enjoyed. I knew that there were not many job opportunities in town.  
  
"Gee, thanks, Frase," he said in a voice thick with the sarcasm that so often defines him, "I needed the reminder of my age thrown in there."   
  
I chose not to belabor the point. What mattered was that - "It is highly unlikely that employers will hire an American over a Canadian unless you have some specialized skill."  
  
"I've got skills," he retorted defensively.  
  
"I know you do, Ray."  
  
"Besides, I know all about the immigration rules. I've read `em cover to cover. But I have to try."  
  
I understood, but I did not want to see him dejected. "I understand, Ray. I'm merely trying to prevent you from becoming exceedingly optimistic in the face of what is doubtless going to come as a large disappointment."  
  
"God, way to give me a line of credit, there, Frase," he said snidely. "You could spare me the bullshit and just come right out and say, `Don't get your hopes up, Ray, `cause we both know you can't cut it'."  
  
"That's not what I was saying at all - "  
  
"Well, that's what it sounded like. I know it's gonna be hard, but I like hard. I'm not the one in the room who dooms everything to failure before I begin, Mr. Fount of Optimism."  
  
I straightened myself, feeling more than a little defensive myself. "I'm always optimistic, Ray. I always assume a positive outcome in all - "  
  
"Yeah, in all wildly dangerous situations where you're likely to die," he shot back. "Then you're all up and at `em, but not when it comes to love."  
  
This was an unexpected and unwanted turn in the conversation. "I was unaware we were discussing love, Ray."  
  
"Weren't we?"  
  
"No, I was referring to - "  
  
"Cause from where I stand it's been nothing but weeks of you telling me that I'm not happy and that I can't ever be happy if I'm not back in the states. So who's setting who up for disappointment, Benton? You'd just give me a big old `I told you so' if I can't find a job and Canada ends up deporting my sorry ass. Then I'd be miserable, but you'd be right."  
  
Oh, what a dreadful thing to say. Does he not know what it would do to me if he left? I found myself stammering. "Are you ... miserable, Ray?"  
  
"At the moment, or in general?"   
  
Alright, I deserved that. I was gripped by the sudden horror that no matter what I said, it would be the wrong thing, and he would be on the next plane to Chicago.   
  
"Shit. Let's just ... forget it, Frase. I'm gonna go make some coffee." I heard him in the kitchen, swearing under his breath. I knew I should make this up to him somehow, make him understand what I was saying, make him believe that I love him above all else. I approached the kitchen quietly, only to see him throw the saucepot in the sink and announce -  
  
"I can't fucking do this anymore, Frase." He shoved past me and yanked his coat off the chair. "I'm gonna head out. Be back in a while."   
  
I could not find a voice until he had his hand on the door knob. I would make this as easy on him as possible. It was not his fault that he had finally made the decision I knew all along he would make.   
  
"Would you like me to be here when you return?"  
  
He gave me a queer look and said words that reverberated through my chest. "Whatever, Fraser. It's your house." And he slammed the door.  
  
Indeed, it is my home. Not _our_ home. He declared that with such a simple statement.  
  
That was it, then. I had lost him. I had driven him away. A self-fulfilled prophecy.  
  
I remember falling to my knees and the entire house began to shake. An earthquake? Impossible. No, it was I who was shaking. Shaking so hard I thought my skeleton might rattle apart and spilt my skin. Doubled over and beset by violent convulsions, I knew that I had failed him. Betrayed him. Lost him.  
  
It was not to be borne.   
  
I remember staggering to my feet only to sink once again in a chair. The cabin listed, tossed upon the angry sea of my own undoing.   
  
Then there was en eerie calm. A terrible calm. I rose from my seat, donned my hat and coat, and retrieved Ray's bottle of Glenlivet from the cabinet in the kitchen. And I went outside.  
  
None of my actions make sense to me now, looking back, so out of character were they. But who can think clearly when insane with guilt and grief?  
  
I realize now that I was quite mistaken on all counts, but at the time, I remember clearly feeling that I had nothing left to lose.  
  
Nothing mattered.  
  
The compulsion to directly end my own life was not foremost on my mind, strangely enough. I was possessed of no such demented impulse. In its simplest terms, I had lost Ray, ergo, I was lost. I was drifting rudderless, wandering aimlessly, and drinking myself into a stupor. That took little effort.  
  
I do not consume alcohol as a rule. Having grown up amongst rough-necks, woodsmen, hunters, trappers, and Native peoples, I have seen first-hand the devastation and violence brought on by the excess consumption of alcohol. Furthermore, I prefer to have a clear mind and a healthy body.  
  
At the time, none of this was even a glimmer on the horizon of my thoughts.   
  
All I could think of was Ray.  
  
I wandered lost in my thoughts of him - his laugh, his smile, his warmth, his humor, his temper and agitation, his love. It was sheer miracle that, eventually, I recognized the lights of my sister's house. I suppose that muscle memory brought me there, or some subconscious desire not to freeze to death. Many people die of hypothermia consuming alcohol on the tundra, as it has a much lower freezing point than water or blood. Drink to stay warm, and die of the cold.   
  
As I have told Ray many times, it is difficult to survive here.  
  
I don't remember much of the rest of the evening. I know I arrived at Maggie's and that she admitted me and warmed me, and that I wept. I cried as I had never cried before.   
  
I thought of my long-lost mother and the songs she used to sing as she rocked me to sleep. I thought of my father and the last time I saw him, with her, disappearing slowly into the light of the mine shaft. I wept for all those who have loved me and have died, and for the one who loves me most that I have driven away.  
  
There in my drunkenness, I knew I had lied to myself, really and truly lied, and that I had been pushing my lie onto Ray. He would not have left were I half the person he needed or wanted, were I half the person I should have been. If I had not pushed him, if I had not projected my fears and insecurities onto him, he would not have gone.  
  
I don't remember anything else.  
  
The next morning, however, I remember with appalling clarity. I grunted, groaned, and tried to move. Surely I was dead. Only death could feel this awful.  
  
My mouth tasted as though my tongue had been licking elk urine off of the sap-soaked bark of Blue Spruce while I was asleep. Ray would not want me to mention how I know what that tastes like.  
  
My chest and stomach ached as if my torso had been recently used for batting practice. Had I been attacked? Had I been beaten by thugs? And my head, oh Lord, my head pulsed, _echoed_. My brain was eight sizes too large. Perhaps Ray had finally made good on his threat and had kicked me.  
  
Ray! I could smell Ray.  
  
"Mornin' sunshine," he said, suddenly beside me, sounding obnoxiously chipper and far, far too loud.   
  
"Ray?"  
  
"Yep. Who'd you think it'd be?"   
  
"Ray?" _I didn't think you would be here_ , I wanted to say. _I thought you'd gone_.  
  
God, what he must think of me. How unforgivably, how atrociously I have behaved for so long, how indecorously I behaved last night.  
  
"You've got quite a grasp of the obvious, Frase," he mocked, using a deeper voice. I tried sitting again, but he stopped me. "Whoa, there, babe. Maggie said you stopped by her place last night - "  
  
"Ray," I interrupted, not wanting to hear his estimation of me or how far it had plummeted, but he would not be gainsaid.  
  
" - And that you came down with the most God-awful case of food poisoning she'd ever seen. I told you the moose in the fridge was questionable - "  
  
" _Ray_." There is no way I can believe that Maggie would lie for me. Mounties do not lie.  
  
" - So you just sit tight, and I'm gonna get you some tea? Okay?"  
  
As he moved to stand, I clung to him, as though to reassure myself of his reality. Perhaps I had finally lost my mind. "I thought you'd left, Ray. I thought you'd _gone_."  
  
This, apparently, did not phase him. "Yeah, I told you I was leaving. I have a slight confession." Before I had time to be afraid, he confessed, "I bought a microwave. I just couldn't take making coffee like that anymore, Frase. Water shouldn't take fifteen or twenty minutes to heat up. But I also got you something."  
  
"What?" His conversations have always left me behind, no matter how hard I try to keep up. He bought a microwave? I was utterly perplexed.  
  
"I got you a present," he announced, as would a small child, hoping I would be as delighted as he.   
  
"Why?" I felt like weeping again. I was so confused.  
  
"Because I can," he answered immediately, undaunted. "I get to do that for you. I get to be happy that I'm here and that you're here and that you love me. And you," he used my confusion to escape me and head for - the closet? "You get to be happy in this kick-ass coat of musk you'd been drooling over."  
  
Oh my Ray, my sweet Ray. What has he gone and done? I treat him deplorably and he buys me a gift, something I have been coveting indeed, like so many luxuries to which he has opened my eyes and heart.  
  
However, his turn of phrase made my stomach churn "Ray. A coat of musk is a truly appalling thought." God, the _stench_ of it.   
  
"I know it's too much, it's extro-, extrava-whatever, but you look great in it, and it likes you. See? Pet it. It purrs."   
  
I stifled a laugh. "Ray, Musk Oxen do not purr." Although it would be deeply troubling were they to do so. I was imagining Ox calling instruments that emitted a low rumble, much like -  
  
"Well, they would if you pet them, Benton." Oh his voice, and what it does to me. His bedroom voice. He knew what he sounded like, and I couldn't fight the blush that spread across my face. This only made me think of how reprehensibly have been treating him since the day I brought him home.  
  
"I thought you'd left, Ray."  
  
"You said that."   
  
I got the impression he was being purposefully obtuse. "I thought you'd left _me_ , Ray. For good," I croaked out in a voice raw as unsanded wood. I felt a tear escape; I could not help it. Does he not know what his leaving did to me?  
  
"Ben, Ben, Ben." He looked at me with such love, such tenderness, and beneath it all the long-suffering humor he bestows upon me when I am being absurd. "What am I going to do with you? Huh?" He seated himself next to me on the sofa and reached for my face, such conviction in his expressive gaze. "I. Love. You. _Love_. Big love. Forever love. Only love. More love than snow." He lifted an arm toward the window and all the beautiful, deadly expanse of the Arctic. "And I'm never leaving you. Never. Not ever. The polar opposite of ever, Frase. This is me promising you for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as I live. Amen. Got it?"  
  
I wanted to believe it, but how could I? I was still lost, drifting rudderless, until I attempted to shake my head and he stilled my movement, anchoring me by pressing both hands to my cheeks.  
  
"Look at me. You have to get this. And if you don't, I'm going to tie you down to the bed in there and f -, make love to you until you do get it."   
  
Seriously, Ray, of all times to be thinking about -  
  
"Oh, you think I'm kidding? This is me threatening you with unending days and nights of sex, as often as I can get it up, only stopping for eating and pissing. I'm not the one with a career here, so I can keep going for a damn long time. Like forever."  
  
I had no doubt he was being honest with me. This thought both inspired and amused me. "That sounds ... tempting, Ray."  
  
He nodded slowly. "Oh yeah it does. But you're sick, bad Mountie stomach, so I called you in sick today, and I get to coddle you."  
  
"Ray - "  
  
"No. Don't Ray me. You get to be sick. It's allowed. It's in the handbook. And I get to take care of you. It's part of the contract. Plus, I want to. You got to make sure I didn't freeze my skinny ass off while we were looking for the reaching-out hand, and I get to make sure you are well enough to tie _me_ to the bed. Deal?"  
  
I tried to form words, but none came. It was everything I wanted and needed and more. It was everything I had denied myself all my life. Who was I to argue in the face of such a gift? I closed my eyes and nodded.  
  
"I love you, Ray. More than I can ever, ever say."  
  
"Yeah, I get that, the beyond words part." I grinned wide. "You know that you're it for me, right? Say it. Ray loves me forever and is never leaving me."  
  
" _Ray_ \- "  
  
"Say it, or it's bondage and endless sex time."  
  
As far as threats go, it was utterly ridiculous. What response could I possibly give?   
  
"Alright, that's it. Onto the bed with you."   
  
He tried to lift me off of the couch, and I simply held on. I held on as tight as I could, wanting to laugh and cry and, more than anything, call his bluff and make him carry me to the bedroom. I would be more than happy to accept whatever punishment he saw fit.  
  
I was too exhausted and wretched to argue with anything. He was home, home with me, and that was all that mattered. All that would ever matter.  
  
"I can't smell good," I whispered, knowing it to be true.  
  
"You smell like you've been sleeping, Ben." His lie was kind.  
  
"I love you, Ray."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And I know you love me." For I did, I do, know it.  
  
"It's about fucking time you said that."  
  
I felt such joy well up within me. I leaned back to look him in the eye. "Let me have some tea and a shower, and then we'll see what time it is."  
  
"I love it when you talk dirty," he teased, and we kissed.  
  
It was a kiss of pure exaltation on my part even though I kept my lips closed. What I must have tasted like, I dare not hazard a guess.  
  
We kissed, drank tea, I showered, and we went to bed. He held me and whispered tender endearments upon my head, and I slept.  
  
I should take the time to say that _we_ never spoke of that evening again, but this doesn't imply that I never spoke of it. When I was well enough to do so, I paid a visit to Maggie. I wanted to explain to her that it was neither necessary nor commendable to lie for me.   
  
She smiled sweetly and sighed, and in her own straightforward manner relieved me of a few misapprehensions.  
  
"Ben, how much do you remember about the night you came here?"  
  
"Very little, I'm afraid."  
  
"So you don't remember my telephone call to Ray?"  
  
"No, but if had been aware of it at the time, I would have urged you not to lie on my behalf. I alone am responsible for the mistakes I make in life."  
  
"Ben, I didn't lie."  
  
"But Ray said that - " I stopped then, thinking back on our conversation, thinking back on waking up on the sofa, undressed and, " - How did I get back home that evening?"  
  
"I drove you. Ray helped me get you into the cabin."  
  
"So he _knew_?!" At first I was angry, outraged at the thought that he should try to lie to me just to avoid argument. "But - "  
  
"Ben, why do you think he would want to lie to you? Why would he make me complicit in such a fabrication?"  
  
Why, indeed. "I am sure I don't know. It was my fault that I misunderstood him, my fault that I nearly got myself killed traipsing about in the snow, at night, _drinking_. The entire episode was my fault, and I would like to think that - "  
  
"Stop. Ben, stop. There is no fault here. As much as you blame yourself, believe me, he blames himself more." She held up a stalling hand, keeping me from shouting my objections. "But no one is to blame, or maybe you both are. That is _not_ what is important, Ben. He lied because he _loves_ you. He adores you. He knew you would never forgive yourself. He knew you would do exactly what you are doing now, when what you should be doing is forgetting that it ever happened and moving forward with your life. He lied to save you from needless embarrassment and guilt. He lied because he loves you so much, he would rather lie than have you think you owe him another apology - when _all_ you owe him is your love and understanding."  
  
"But - "  
  
"No but's, Ben. None." Then she smiled, and laughed. "Dot it. File it. Stick it in a box marked done."  
  
I had to join her in laughing. That is Ray, my Ray. My sweet, sweet Ray. Case closed.   
  
Yes, Ray loves me so much that he would do anything to keep me from getting hurt, to keep me from hurting myself. His lie was kindness itself.  
  
He loves me.  
  
He loves me enough to save me from myself. And I love him enough to never let him know the truth.  
  
As for the bondage and endless sex ...  
  
THE END  
  


  
 

* * *

End To Tell the Truth by limlaith 

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